The sound of metal striking concrete was the soundtrack to my humiliation. 0600 hours. Fort Benning, Georgia.
“Incompetent quota hire.”
Staff Sergeant Kyle Brooks.
He didn’t just say the words; he boomed them. He was a man built like a linebacker, and he needed everyone in the ammunition supply point (ASP) to know he was in charge.
I was Specialist Vanessa Thompson. Five-foot-four, hair in a tight regulation bun, and currently kneeling on the cold concrete, picking up the ammunition rounds he’d scattered.
My hands didn’t tremble.
They wanted them to. But my movements were methodical, precise. I was a ghost playing a part.
The 30 other soldiers in the formation watched.
I could feel their eyes. Some looked away, uncomfortable.
Most just looked blank. This was their morning routine.
For three months, they’d watched Brooks and his crew—Rodriguez, Chen, and Davis—make it their mission to break me.
I stood slowly, the collected rounds cradled in my hands. I didn’t look at him. I walked to the inventory board.
And I did something I hadn’t planned on.
Something defiant. My fingers, steady as a surgeon’s, pinned a small, worn object to the corkboard.
A bronze Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) badge. Scratched, beaten, but unmistakable.
Etched into its surface were three numbers: 723.
I turned back to my work. Master Sergeant Elena Rivera, the armory chief, stopped dead. She was walking past with her morning coffee.
The 40-year-old veteran froze so fast, coffee sloshed over the rim.
Her eyes locked onto those numbers. Her weathered face shifted.
It wasn’t just curiosity. It was recognition.
A memory hitting her like a physical blow.
She set her coffee down. Her fingers were trembling. “723,” she whispered.
In the silence of the warehouse, it was a shout.
Brooks hadn’t noticed. He was too busy playing to his audience.
“Look at her,” he sneered, his voice dripping contempt. “Can’t even hold on to simple inventory.
How’s someone like you supposed to handle live ordnance?
You’re going to get someone killed with your incompetence.”
I finished securing the rounds. I turned to face him. For a split second, I let the mask slip.
I let him see what was behind my eyes.
Not fear. Not anger.
Something else. Something cold.
He faltered, just for a second.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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